


A Love Of Poetry

by eawen_penallion



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Inspired by Poetry, Lothlórien, M/M, Shakespeare, Third Age, kit marlowe - Freeform, long distance romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-05
Updated: 2013-03-05
Packaged: 2017-12-04 10:11:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/709586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eawen_penallion/pseuds/eawen_penallion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two silent elves learn to communicate in a love that will last forever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Love Of Poetry

**Author's Note:**

> This was my first fic, written about ten years ago!
> 
> My beta then was Nienna, who was SO supportive and stroked my ego beautifully.

If it had not been a certainty, none would have believed them to be brothers. For they were as unlike as any brothers could be, in form and in character; from eldest to youngest; from shortest to tallest.

The eldest was Haldir. He could not be counted amongst the tallest of elves. Indeed, he presented as quite stocky in build, though much of his stature could be accounted by the bulky design of the uniform of the Galadhrim. In character and craft he stood out, a spectacular wielder of sword and bow; bold, brave, with an air which many took to be arrogance. Those serving under him would have called it outstanding self-confidence, a confidence that in turn inspired his wardens and brought out a desire to emulate which could only to be for the good of the warriors of the Golden Wood. Haldir was the epitome of the devoted commander, for which the Lord and Lady had rewarded him at a relatively young age with the title of Marchwarden and all the duties and privileges therein. Haldir's talents served him well not only in duty but in pleasure. He was like the honey-pot around which the enchanted bees swarmed, of either gender, for he was attractive and attracted to the fairest of ellons and elleths. In turn he was also like a bee, dipping from flower to flower, partaking of the sweetness offered to him and spreading the pollen of his loving without excessive favour to one particular elf.

In this manner his youngest brother Rúmil followed him somewhat. Rúmil, tall and slender as the fairest of trees in the Golden Wood. Rúmil, whose blonde hair shone silver in the moonlight. Rúmil, who was the finest of archers, competing comfortably with and often besting the Prince of Mirkwood. Rúmil, who danced as lightly as the sunbeams upon the elanor which carpeted the woodland floor, who sang sweeter than the nightingale. His devotees were almost as numerous as Haldir's, though indeed he favoured the beautiful elleths as his bedmates.

And then there was Orophin.

Ai, Orophin.

Orophin-in-the-middle.

He was fair, they supposed. He had the hair (white-gold, but set in the most severe of warrior braids); the face (but angular, and oh, so solemn in countenance!); and the slim but strong figure (oh, no-one *truly* suited the greys of the Galadhrim, but he hid his form even when off duty, unlike his brothers who indulged in brilliant blues and sparkling scarlet when frolicking in the groves of Caras Galadhon).

And his voice? No one knew, for he was silent. As quiet as a grave. No, he did not indulge in oratory for when one word could suffice, why waste breath on more?

Oh, he had his admirers. Those who liked the strong-but-silent type. Those who looked upon him as a challenge; a mountain of mystery to scale; an intellectual who to be shredded of his careful emotional distance, brought to the cliff-top of desire and tumbled over into the ecstasy of sexual fulfilment. No one suitor had as yet succeeded even to pass the first disinterested glance.

None had expected Orophin to follow in Haldir's footsteps. Whereas Haldir had played pranks and Rúmil had played truant from their studies as elflings, Orophin had immersed himself in scholarship. Listening to the discussions and debates, researching and divining, and most of all reading all that was written, from the crudest of signs above the Lórien taverns to the greatest of tomes in Lord Celeborn's library. Lord Celeborn had high hopes that Orophin would become a diplomat, or an advisor, or a scribe...but no, Orophin had chosen the path of his father and brother and donned the garb of a Galadhrim. Pleadings and persuasion had no effect and, as in everything he undertook, Orophin mastered his craft to the highest level, bringing his skills with weaponry beyond mere competence.

And so it was that the three brothers became legend amongst the patrols of the Protectors of the Golden Wood, sworn enemies to the enemies of the elf haven, knights of the Northern Fences, respected and revered, and to them soon fell most of the valued commissions dispensed by Galadriel and Celeborn. Amongst these duties was the part of escort to the diplomatic missions that entered or left Lothlórien, including the newly arrived party of the daughter of Lórien, the Lady Celebrían , and her husband Elrond Peredhel.

The party was a large one, for upon their entrance to the inner city of the Wood there was to be music and merrymaking in celebration of the coming of age of the twin princes of Imladris. It was a large party, for also in attendance was Glorfindel the Balrog-Slayer, mighty of stature and magnificent in radiance, beloved of Gondolin, re-Born warrior. His beauty shone around him, dazzling and enticing all who beheld him. Laughter, love of life and the light of Aman shone upon all those who rejoiced in his company. So too came Lindir, chief minstrel of Imladris. His fame preceded him, for he was a singer of legends and weaver of songs. His voice was that of the running stream, sweet, tender, a joy to drown in. He would be in great demand throughout his stay and the boughs of the mallorn would ring with the applause showered upon him.

And then there was Erestor. 

Ai, now there was an elf to be feared. Dark as night, of raven-black hair and piercing coal eyes, he watched, and observed, and calculated, and manipulated. His voice was sharp, his comments cutting, his cunning and his wit as sharp as a rapier. Words were weapons to be wielded for his Lord's benefit, his battles were played out on the negotiating tables, and the slaughter was horrific. Wrapped in the blackest of velvets, he sat upon his horse as he would at his desk, at home on horseback as he was on the ground. He was silent, and none dared disturb his air of solitude.

The greetings were made by Haldir, eloquent and direct, and he and his brothers walked alongside the horses, guiding the rulers of Imladris and their retinue along the hidden paths to the City of Trees. Haldir, as befitting his rank as Marchwarden, walked with Elrond and Celebrían and fell into easy conversation with them. Rúmil took it upon himself to entertain the twins and Lindir and soon laughter and mirth rang out from that youthful party. Orophin walked alongside Glorfindel and Erestor, and Glorfindel *was* the conversation. Neither of his two companions showed any inclination to open their mouths in speech and truth be told Glorfindel in full flight could easily provide both entertainer and audience. His present declamation was on the subject of poetry.

" ‘Then Turgon came, his host ten thousand strong,  
Bright mail, long swords - a sun upon them shone,  
A forest of spears rattled, to Morgoth's dread  
Ut úlie'n aurë ! The day has come!'

Ah, those immortal words! I truly think that there is no finer poet of the First Age than Beriorgan!"

" Cylleruion ."

Glorfindel started at the rusty voice that ascended from the otherwise silent elf who had so far ignored all attempts by the golden lord at drawing him into conversation. The Galadhel had not raised his head, turned, smiled or in anyway indicated that he had been listening to the poetry Glorfindel had been reciting. Not that that would have stopped him. Glorfindel's dulcet tones were even pleasing to himself. Nevertheless, he could not allow the remark to pass unanswered.

" Nay, it was Beriorgan who wrote of the Nirnaeth Arnoediad ! Why I remember Mithrandir reciting it at one of the parties at Rivendell, eh Erestor?" He deferred to his companion without really expecting an answer.

The white-gold head shook slightly, the eyes not lifting to the Balrog-Slayer.

"Plagiarism. Cylleruion , first century, Second Age; Beriorgan, ninth century, Second Age."

There was no chance for Glorfindel to respond, for at that moment the company arrived at the gates of the city. A flurry of activity expanded around them as they were surrounded by the Guardians of Caras Galadhon, in preparation for the further journey to the Great Mallorn. Thus no one saw the speculation in Erestor's eyes as they lit upon the silent Orophin, who discharged his duties swiftly and efficiently before fading into the background and out of the welcoming party. Only to Glorfindel did Erestor give sign of his interest in the Galadhel, and only obliquely through three words.

"He is right."

It was much later that Erestor and Orophin were sighted together, heads inclined towards each other. How Erestor had divined Orophin's whereabouts was unknown; how Erestor had persuaded Orophin to converse with him was a mystery ; and what they spoke of was unsolved for their lips moved seldom, their speech was not heard and their common interest was unidentified. From then on, whenever duties did not prohibit, the unlikely duo was seen meandering the paths of the enchanted forest, seated by the calm pools or scrutinising the bounteous flowers of Galadriel's garden. The warden's brothers noted that the light in his talan was extinguished early, or not lit at all when dusk fell in the Golden Wood. Whether similar happenings occurred in the guest talans was also unknown for the servants assigned to the area either did not notice or forbore to relinquish such information. None dared ask the distinguished visitors residing there if one of their company was … keeping company.

 

// Gentle hands explored the silken chest touching lightly upon the sensitive nipples, eliciting a gasp from that gentle mouth. Red lips leant down to taste one, pursed, warm wet, a lithe tongue lapping at the sweet nub. The warden arched enthusiastically to meet the moist lips and a soft moan escaped his own. The tongue continued its exploration, teeth nipping at the tightening nipple, fingers teasing and pinching the other, then the mouth travelled further down the chest to the firm abdomen, leaving a trail of moisture. Gently breathing cool air across the trails, Erestor smiled as his love writhed in pleasure. The moist pink muscle delved eagerly into the dip of the navel and the advisor ignored the hands pressing on his shoulders, trying to force him lower. //

 

‘Then give me welcome, next my heaven the best, Even to thy pure and most most loving breast.'

 

After some weeks the visitation drew to a close and the brothers of Lórien escorted the Imladrians to the borders of the haven, dividing their attentions in the same manner as before. Orophin silently took his place with the seneschal and the adviser, but it was noted by only his eldest brother that the warden walked with his hand upon the neck of the black horse, and that the hand of the raven-haired elf dropped occasionally from the reins to the slender fingers. Not to squeeze, not to stroke, merely to touch. The parting at the borders was tinged with sadness as princes, seneschal and galadhrim bid their farewells. Lord Elrond and his wife spoke quiet words of thanks and the princes cried out their goodbyes.

Orophin was silent.

Erestor kept his peace.

The party left, and the Galadhrim returned to the trees.

Yet Haldir watched. And Haldir saw the lingering glance that his younger brother cast back into the distance, and at the last glimpse of indistinguishable figures that passed over the horizon.

Life returned to normal in the Golden Wood. Patrols were sent out, and the Northern Fences received their protectors with all the usual nonchalance that the trees were used to giving. Orcs were sighted, orcs were hunted and orcs were killed. Days and nights of watching were rewarded with rest periods either on the talans or, at the end of a term, within the sweet embrace of the City of Trees. Elves made merry, partook of golden wines and fresh foods, and danced with their beloveds. Orophin walked alone in the gardens which had so pleased him when he had a companion, and was seen to take solace in scribing in a notebook which he was now seen to carry everywhere, a slim volume bound in soft green leather. The notebook followed him back to the borders, to be withdrawn from a pouch within the breast of his uniform whenever time dragged upon the watch, or the moon shone down upon his comrades who slept. In no way did the warden neglect his sworn duties, but now he had a purpose of his own.

When asked what he did he simply replied, "Write poetry."

 

****

 

Years passed, and the brothers of Lórien were called to escort duty again. Thus they waited once more at the edge of the forest as the party, a small one this time, made their appearance over the rise. The delegation was bound on business, of treaties and trusts, and so it was but the princes and their mentor with some of the scribes of Imladris. None gainsaid the warden as he stepped forward to take his place at the side of the black horse, carrying the black-haired advisor, clad in black robes. 

There were no exclamations, no declarations, no excesses of fluid to trail down smiling cheeks.

Just a hand on a horse's neck, and fingers that touched.

Not stroked or squeezed.

The brothers were due to return to the Northern Fences, yet a word from a smiling Lady stayed their departure. Duties were laid upon them that required them to remain within Caras Galadhon. Thus was the garden of Galadriel once again frequented by two silent figures. A grey-sleeved arm was extended in offering, the gift a green-bound notebook. Taken it was by a hand extending from black velvet, and a similar notebook bound in blue proffered in return. Heads leaned together over the carefully filled tomes and raven strands of silken hair mingled with silver-gold tresses.

 

 

// Conceding at last, when Orophin thought he could take no more, Erestor turned his eyes to observe the swollen shaft, purple in its distension and weeping its longing from the sweet slit. With no more delay he swallowed the length to its hilt, and the body beneath him bucked in shock and delight. A strong hand was laid across the warden's stomach, holding him down as the mouth slid up and down in a steady rhythm. The gasps became small cries as the heat swept Orophin's groin, passing as a flush through his veins, spiralling beyond all hope of restraint. //

 

‘He clapp'd his plump cheeks, with his tresses play'd ,  
And smiling wantonly, his love bewray'd.  
He watch'd his arms, and as they open'd wide,  
At every stroke, betwixt them would he slide,  
And steal a kiss, and then run out and dance,  
And as he turn'd, cast many a lustful glance.'

 

 

When two months had passed, and the party had gone, Orophin sat in his studies, writing in the green book, reading from the blue.

When asked what he did he simply replied, "Read poetry."

 

****

 

And so it went over the centuries. Trips to Lothlórien were alternated with journeys over the Misty Mountains to the elfhame of Imladris, on escort or as emissaries.

For the majority of the Lady Arwen, wherein joy and dancing was found.

In meetings of the White Council, occasions of dire warnings and deep ponderings.

To take part in Yule revelries – green boughs, candles, snow and delights.

On swift and sad escort of parents to their daughter's bedside, final moments as a family before they were split asunder by her solitary voyage to Aman.

Joy, concern, bright nights, sorrowful days. Orophin and Erestor maintained their external composure. Some speculated but none knew of swift touches and sweet embraces; of heart-wrenching sobs, of comfort of advisors in strong Galadhrim arms.

 

 

// Erestor pulled back, hand firmly gripped around the base of his lover's member. "Hush, melethron. Not yet." His other hand reached out for the oil to ease his passage, a generous amount dripped onto the fingers which made their way between the galadhel's thighs, into his cleft, probing the puckered opening to heaven's embrace. Gentle pressure opened the tight muscle and the digit entered spreading the oil within the velvet passage. A second finger joined, then another and the channel opened as the warden groaned deeply, then twisted in agonised ecstasy as they brushed the sensitive gland hidden within.//

 

‘ Tis true, ‘tis true; thus was Adonis slain ;  
He ran upon the oar with his sharp spear,  
Who did not whet his teeth at him again,  
But by a kiss thought to persuade him there,  
And, nuzzling in his flank, the loving swine  
Sheathed unaware the tusk in his soft groin.'

 

 

And always an exchange of notebooks, green for blue. A trunk appeared in the talan of the warden, a bookcase in the chambers of the advisor, filling slowly, but none discarded, none returned.

 

****

 

The third age passed on and duties on the Northern Fences were often extended to the borders of Mirkwood. For Dol Guldur was inhabited once more, and alliances were strengthened by joint patrols.

Journeys became less frequent, for all were required on the borders to repel the increasing incursions. Yet the exchange of notebooks continued by the graces of the orc-hunting princes of Imladris. Their sister now resided in Lothlórien and, between their ventures with the rangers of the north, they attended upon her and their grandparents. Maturity had been laid upon them and now without jocularity they carried the missives as symbols of steadfast love between the silent elves.

The elves were often exhausted, too tired to do ought but chew lembas and talk softly. Orophin lay silent on the wood slats of the talan.

 

‘For then my thoughts (from far where I abide)  
Intend a zealous pilgrimage to thee,  
And keep my drooping eyelids open wide,  
Looking on darkness which the blind do see;  
Save that my soul's imaginary sight  
Presents they shadow to my sightless view.'

 

When asked what he did he simply replied, "Think poetry."

 

****

 

Travellers entered the Golden Wood, a mixed group of eight weary, bedraggled strangers of many shapes and sizes. Their entry was obvious for only two tread lightly, and the Naug was loudest of all. Haldir greeted them and brought them across the Celebrant then, using blindfolds for part of the journey, into the City and the presence of the Lord and Lady.

Bad news travels quickly, and this was the worst. Soon the melancholic strains of eulogy and sorrow wound through the trees as voices were raised in sweet sad remembrance of Mithrandir, the beloved. Speculation was rife and all knew that the time of war was come again. The fellowship remained but a short while by the counting of the Eldar and they resumed their journey bearing gifts of the lady to help them in their task. Before their departure their leader approached Orophin, speaking in soft low tones. No notebooks were exchanged; the pressure of a sympathetic hand on arm was all he gave to the warden, yet Orophin's heart was lightened.

For months the warriors of the Wood prepared for battle, a host combined with the archers of the Greenwood to descend upon the orcs and spiders that infested the forests about the dark fortress of Dol Guldur. The fighting was fierce and many elves were lost but in the end the citadel was destroyed, the victory chiming with the valiant completion of the task laid upon tiny shoulders as the One Ring, along with the Dark Lord, was destroyed in the fires of Orodruin.

The brothers of Lórien survived the dark forest, and the day came when they escorted the Lord and Lady to the wedding of Celebrían's daughter to the Elfstone, and the last union of Men and Elves. In that city of white marble, the peoples of Middle Earth rejoiced in cheering multitudes, throats wracked with the force of their acclamations.

And in a tent amongst the small town of tents set upon the cleared lands of Pelennor fields a smaller union took place.

 

 

// Watching his face, Erestor knew that he could hold back no more and positioned himself at the entrance, thrusting deep in one swift motion. Orophin's widespread legs lifted and gripped around Erestor's waist, pulling him forward, wanting that turgid length to spear him to the core. Erestor set a keen pace, moaning soft words as he lay upon his love. The heat swelled between them, completion rising fast. //

 

‘With that he stripp'd him to the ivory skin ,  
And crying, ‘Love, I come', leapt lively in.  
I could not stay behind you. My desire ,  
More sharp than filéd steel, did spur me forth.'

 

 

Blue and green.

Farewells were inevitable and the two lines of elves, of Rivendell and Lothlórien, departed some time after the wedding. For some way the two parties shared their path, their separation occurring as the denizens of Lothlórien turned east. Raven-head and silver-gold, eyes followed each other until visible no more.

 

****

 

This was the saddest escort the brothers had provided, yet joyful in so many ways. As the final journey of the Lady of the Wood set out from Caras Galadhon, a Silver Tree stood alone and silent, all farewells had been uttered in private expressions of words and deeds. Not for Celeborn this voyage for he Kept no Ring and though he would have been welcome, he entrusted his lady to the brothers of Lórien as guardians of the exodus of the Golden Wood. The Lord would remain to succour and counsel those who remained of the Eldar upon Middle Earth until the last, then lead his wandering people home.

The retinue traversed the Dimrill Stairs to descend into Imladris where they would join with the Lord of Rivendell and his household to make the final journey to the Grey Havens, and thence to the Undying Lands. One however would turn back. Though Haldir and Rúmil would continue to guard their Lady, Orophin was to remain at his Lord's side until East Lórien was abandoned.

The library of Imladris was packed and loaded onto heavy drays to be transported to the ship, and to these Orophin added travel bags containing many notebooks bound with blue leather. He did not bid his brothers farewell. Expressions of emotion at the separation were not to be demonstrated for public consumption, and whether he had previously embraced his brothers in private was never to be discovered outside of the trio. Nor was any word spoken with the Chief Counsellor of the House of Elrond. Clandestine moments had been snatched and well spent and both were satisfied if sorrowful. As Erestor mounted his black horse he held in his hand a green notebook.

 

// The advisor gripped Orophin's rock-hard rod and stroked in time with his increasing thrusts until the warden called out his name in the force of his release. The hot cream over his fingers and the spasms of muscles around his length drove Erestor over the edge and he surged one last time into the hot wet passage, spilling his seed to fill his lover. //

 

‘But here's the joy, my friend and I are one:  
'Sweet flattery! Then he loves but me alone.'

 

 

The entourage departed and Orophin stood on the steps of the deserted Homely House, flanked by the sons of Elrond, and looked forlornly at the volume in his hand, the final blue-bound notebook inscribed in Erestor's hand.

 

*******

 

The ship had met fair weather and the elves on deck craned their necks, jostling to catch their first glimpse of the shores of Valinor. Orophin stood calmly by his Lord away from the rail, his face not revealing his thoughts or desires. The ship pulled into the crowded harbour and cries went up from both passengers and their loved ones on the dock, joyous greetings exchanged without delay.

The captain bowed to the Prince of Doriath, gesturing a path through the impatient voyagers, who recognised the right of their lord and his guardian to descend the gangplank first. Celeborn saw who lurked behind the sweet, smiling golden-tressed elleth who was first amongst the greeters, and his eyes widened as he saw, for the first time ever, a gentle look of longing and deep love upon the dark elf's face. He turned to his faithful warden and saw that Orophin reciprocated that desire, his hands clutching convulsively at the green notebook within his grasp.

"Tell me, Orophin. What will you do here, in Aman?"

Orophin gulped then spoke in a quiet, husky voice. "Recite to him the poetry of my love, my lord, for the rest of my life."

Then he flew into the open arms of his black-haired advisor, never to be parted again.

*****

 

‘Come live with mee, and be my love,  
And we will all the pleasures prove,  
That Vallies, groves, hills and fieldes,  
Woods or steepie mountaine yeeldes.'

 

 

 

Elvish words :

ellon – male elf  
elleth – female elf  
melethron – male lover

*****

THE END

**Author's Note:**

> The names of Cylleruion and Beriorgan are obtained from the name translator at www.councilofelrond.com, and are respectively ‘Christopher' and ‘William', for Kit Marlowe and Will Shakespeare, whose poetry is quoted within the context of this story.  
> The ‘ Nirnaeth Arnoediad ‘ poetry is my own horrid creation, stripped from a few lines in the Silmarillion.


End file.
